


the bitter taste of obligation

by Nakimochiku



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Swap, Gen, Older Sam, Younger Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 08:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3971170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nakimochiku/pseuds/Nakimochiku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Don't worry, Dean, nothing's gonna hurt you if your big brother Sammy has anything to say about it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	the bitter taste of obligation

Sam is turning five in a couple hours. He shuts his eyes tight, listens to the rumble of the impala, feels little Dean squirm around in his lap, and tries not to think that this is the worst day ever. Instead he thinks of when Dean was born. He was so small, even smaller than he is now, and his face looked like a wrinkled furled rose bud, all pink and soft. Mommy had said "C’mere and hold your little brother, Sammy. Be careful of his head." She’d hummed Hey Jude then, stroking their heads together in time with Sam in her lap and Dean in his. 

Thinking about Mommy just makes this all worse. For one second, gazing down at little Dean who babbles peacefully at him, he thinks this whole thing is this stupid baby's fault. If he hadn’t cried in the night, if Mommy hadn’t come in to soothe Sam back to sleep, distressed as he was by Dean, if Mommy hadn’t seen the man, that thing, in his room, maybe she--

But no. Dean is a baby. And babies cry. He tries to remember that it is not his fault. But it is hard to convince himself of that. He hums all the parts of Hey Jude that he can remember, but it’s to calm himself down, rather than his little brother. 

“You’re his big brother,” Mommy said. “Big brothers look out for little brothers.”

"We'll be okay." Daddy is saying from the front seat. "We'll regroup, we'll get that son of a bitch. But for now we're going far away, and we'll be okay." Sam isn’t sure Daddy is talking to him, but he nods along mutely and rocks Dean like Mommy showed him, gentle and easy, lulling him to sleep.

He wonders how Dean can sleep at a time like this. How can he burble and babble his little baby noises and look up at Sam like their world hasn’t literally burnt down around them? He doesn’t know if he admires or hates that. He’s just happy that Dean isn’t crying now. 

"Your brother alright back there?" Daddy’s voices wavers, his hands tremble on the steering wheel.

"Yeah." Sam whispers. Dean is asleep and Sam holds him to his chest and slouches in his seat. He yawns, makes himself comfortable against the door. "Yeah, we're both okay."

They drive through the night, and when Sam wakes again it’s because Dean is fussing and squirming in his sleep lax arms. Dean is a quiet baby. He cries when he’s hungry or wet, but is otherwise content in anyone’s arms. "Daddy?" Sam tries. His voice feels rough and ragged, like he was crying all night in his sleep. He’s glad of Dean’s weight on him now, glad of the comfort and purpose his warm little body so thoughtlessly provides. "Daddy, I think Dean needs changing."

"There are diapers and wipes beside you, Sam. There’s nowhere to stop for a while. Figure it out." Sam tries his best, with Daddy’s watchful gaze on him in the rear view mirror. Dean is content and burbling again once he’s dry. Sam scoops Dean up again, kisses his downy hair covered head, feeling his baby soft skin.

In the light of day, Sam can’t understand how he ever blamed Dean for any of this, even for a second. Dean blows a spit bubble and gurgles at him, wide green eyes just taking him in. "Don’t worry Dean. Nothing’s gonna hurt you if your big brother Sammy has anything to say about it." He promises.

 

*

 

The door is open. That by itself is strange. Dean wanders over to the open door and peers out at the parking lot, wonder idly where Sammy is. He hears the raucous noise of the high way, the laughter of a couple kids in a playground. But no Sammy. Dean valiantly does not cry.

He wanders further, looking for Daddy now too. He swallows down panic that maybe they left him behind; maybe they didn’t want him anymore. Maybe he’s going to stay in this motel until he’s thirty and wrinkly, just waiting for Sammy and Daddy to come back. 

He can’t hold back his relief when the impala rumbles into the parking lot like a hungry wolf, and he runs to meet it. "Dean!" His father bellows, slamming the door furiously and scooping him up, shaking him a little. "What the hell are you doing out here? Where’s Sam?"

Dean’s about to explain as best he can without blubbering (Daddy hates blubbering hates seeing him cry hates when he makes more noise than he needs to) that he can’t find Sammy when suddenly his big brother is there, calling his name. There’s sand in his hair, his clothes are rumpled where he’s been play fighting with the other boys in the playground. 

"Why the hell is your three year old brother wandering around by himself?" Daddy demands. Four, Dean doesn’t remind, picking at the leather of his jacket. He forgot Sammy would get in trouble. "What the hell were you doing? What have I told you?"

"He was napping I thought-"

"It was my fault Daddy. I ran away from Sammy, ‘cause I wanted to go play at the park and he wouldn’t let me. Don’t be mad." Dean interrupts.

"Mad? I’m way more than mad. What have I told you about minding your brother?" He sets Dean down and drags him back into the motel room, Sam’s cries of “Dad don’t, he’s lying, it was my fault,” falling on deaf ears. 

Dean doesn’t mind the spanking all that much anyway. He did wander out by himself.

Sammy is crying, and it hurts Dean to sit down, so he just lies on his belly waiting for the stinging to stop. "Why’d you tell him that?" Sammy whispers, running his fingers through his hair gently, "Why’d you lie?"

Dean shrugs his little shoulders. "Didn’t want you in trouble." 

"I’m the big brother, dummy, you’re my responsibility. I’m supposed to be taking spankings for you, not the other way around." Dean just shrugs again. Sam sighs and drops a kiss into his hair. "You must have been scared when you woke up and didn’t see me there."

"Not scared of nothing." Dean boasts. He doesn’t tell Sammy how scared he’d been, because it doesn’t matter. Sammy’s here, he didn’t leave him behind. That’s all that matters.

 

*

 

Sam sees Dean fall from his vantage point on the swing, but he’s too far away to do anything about it. He kicks his foot out in the sand to slow his swing until its low enough for him to jump, keeping his eyes fixed on Dean. He mourns, for a moment, that some other kid will steal his turn on the swing while he tends to him, but that’s okay.

Dean isn’t crying when he gets to him. He sits on the pavement and stares sullenly at his scraped palms and knees. He looks confused, brushing away the pebbles embedded in his small hands with short gentle strokes, as though offended by his skin for splitting beneath his weight.

"You okay kiddo?" Sam kneels beside him, taking his knee to inspect the damage. He kisses both his palms, plying him with affection. Dean just shrugs and accepts his affection with the tolerant forbearance of a four year old who doesn’t think he still needs to have his boo boos kissed better. "Speak to me, did you hit your head when you fell?"

"No." Dean says with a tiny voice, pulling himself up and worrying at a grass stain. "I’m okay. You can go back to playing."

"You need a band aid on your knee--" Sam tries.

"I can get it." 

"I know you can get it, but I wanna help." He curls his fingers around Dean’s skinny wrist, tugging gently in the direction of home. Dean gives a long suffering sigh that frankly sounds too ancient on a four year old, and follows. "Don’t gimme that." Sam says. "What else are big brothers for?"

They walk back to Uncle Bobby’s house, hand in hand, Dean sullenly trudging along. "Don’t need your help." He mutters. "I’m big."

"The day you can watch scary movies by yourself without crawling into my bed afterwards is the day I’ll call you big." Sam retorts dryly, pushing open the screen door into Bobby’s.

"You’re back early, boys." Bobby comments as he glances up from a book. Dean pouts and shrugs, but Sam just ruffles his hair. Bobby catches a glimpse of Dean’s scraped knee and is out of his chair beside them in a heartbeat. "What did you do to yourself, boy?"

"Fell." Dean whispers, chewing the inside of his cheek.

"And he didn’t even cry." Sam boasts. "He’s tough, ain’t he Uncle Bobby?" He nudges Dean, hoping for a smile, and is rewarded with a shy one.

"That’s right. Tough." Bobby smiles too, a vague upturn of his mouth barely visible beneath his beard, and ruffles Dean’s hair. "For now we gotta wash--" he’s interrupted by a phone call, and he gives an exasperated sigh. "Sammy, you know where the first aid kit is. Take care of your brother while I take this." 

Sam nods and leads Dean to the wash room to sit him on the toilet. He wipes at the scrape with a wash cloth. "Sammy?" Dean whispers. Sam hums and looks around for a cotton swab to apply antibiotics on the wound. "Do you really think I’m tough?"

"Yeah Dean, I really do." He dabs the medicine onto Dean’s knee.

"Sammy?" Dean enquires after a moment. "Am I still tough if I tell you it really hurts?"

"Yes Dean." Sam laughs. He bandages it and places a kiss on top. "You’re still tough."

 

*

 

Dean wakes up at five AM precisely to see Dad off at the door.

"Where’s your brother?" Dad asks, shrugging on his big leather jacket. He looks at the crappy motel room, at the half open door where he can just make out a lump on the bed. Dad huffs a quiet laugh, and ruffles Dean’s hair. "You’re the responsible one." He says, and drops a kiss to Dean’s head. He swings his duffle over his shoulder and wags his finger under Dean’s nose. "Remember. Anything happens call Uncle Bobby. Maintain the salt lines, and most important?"

"Mind Sammy’s orders." Dean repeats faithfully.

Dad grins. "That’s my boy. See you in a couple weeks, son." Then he’s gone with just a parting wave and the growl of the impala outside, leaving Dean to go about his morning routine. 

He washes his face in the cracked porcelain sink, standing on tip toe on top of a phone book so he can see over the counter. He is six, and it will be his first day of school in a couple hours. He doesn’t think Dad remembered, but that’s okay.  Dad is a superhero, and superheroes have a lot to deal with; all of which are more important than his first day of school. If he is bitter, he splashes the thought away with a warm wave of water.

He brushes his teeth, gingerly over the sore gums where one fell out. He’d salted and burned it in this very same sink last night, and managed to singe his fingers. 

When he’s done, he goes to the kitchenette. There is an open box of lucky charms, with just enough for one person, and left over spaghetti o’s. Dean stands on his tip toes to reach the microwave and sits down to his breakfast. 

Sammy comes in then, rubbing his eyes and blinking blearily around the kitchen. "Morning, kiddo." He yawns widely, ruffling Dean’s neatly combed hair as he passes. He heads straight for the lucky charms and shakes it. "Didn’t you want lucky charms? You haven’t had any."

"Yeah." Dean replies honestly, scraping up the last of his spaghetti o’s. "But there’s only a bit left, and I know they’re your favourite." 

Sammy blinks and smiles gently at him, moving closer to plant a kiss on his forehead. "Thanks Dean."

Dean grins broadly, because he hates that smile on his big brother’s face, and holds up a toy race car. "I already got the prize anyway."

 

*

 

The gun shot is still ringing in Sam’s ears. "Dad!" Sam gasps, dropping his gun and running into the bedroom. The breeze from the broken window feels frigid in the cozy room, and he jumps onto the bed to avoid the smattering of glass shards on the carpet, crawling over the covers to Dean’s side where he is pressed to Dad’s chest.

Dad runs reverent hands over Dean’s hair, his face, and Dean hums sleepily, murmuring "what’s happening? Dad, why are you home so early?"

As soon as he’s certain Dean is fine, he rounds on Sam. "What the hell were you doing?" He snaps. "You could have hit Dean--"

"I couldn’t hesitate. You taught me that." Sam returns. Dad looks at him with an expression he’s always hated, a blend of confusion and anger and horror, as though he isn’t looking at his son, or even a human being for that matter. That look has always managed to make Sam feel like a freak.

"There’s a difference between lining up a shot and hesitating, Sam." Dad hugs Dean even closer, as though he wishes he could just pull Dean into his ribcage and keep him safe, Dean squirms but otherwise doesn’t protest. 

"I’m not a baby Dad, and I’m not an idiot. I wouldn’t have hit Dean, I was protecting him."

Dad snorts. "Protecting him? is that why there was a monster in here to begin with? Where were you, Sam?"

"I was out!" Sam snaps, smacking the bed covers. Dean makes an abortive noise that sounds like stop, but Sam’s never once listened to Dean when it comes to Dad and he’s not going to start now. "I’m allowed to go out, Dad, I’m allowed to have an hour of fun."

Dad swells with fury, and he ignores Dean’s hands tapping on his chest, tugging to catch his attention. "You’re not allowed to have fun, Sam. There’s no such thing as fun. Not when you know what’s out there." He studies Sam, eyebrows drawn into a powerful frown. "Do you not even feel bad for leaving your brother here, after he was attacked?"

"I don’t know Dad," Sam says, saccharine sweet and sarcastic. "Don’t you feel bad leaving us in shitty motel rooms all across the country?"

Dad’s face grows steely and tight. He looks like he’s about to bellow. Sam knows precisely what he’s going to say, they’ve had this conversation a million times and they’ll have it a million more. Dad will say that he’s doing his best, and Dean will agree, and somehow Sam will be the bad guy when he says Dad’s best just isn’t good enough.

Dean interrupts them, perhaps because he knows the pattern; he’s walked this path before. "Can you two not fight so late as night? I’m too sleepy." He crawls out of Dad’s arms, and Dad looks so reluctant to let him go, tucking him in, nestling the sheet around his body. "Save it for the morning, I’ll referee then." Dean yawns, and curls to sleep.

Sam glowers at Dad as he passes, because he just doesn’t understand. He crawls into bed beside Dean, wrapping him in his arms and almost terrified to let go. Sam had come into the room to see some monster hunched over Dean on the bed, hurting him. And he fired because he wanted it to stop. Wanted it off him. Wanted to kill it for daring to breathe in Dean’s direction.

No, Sam isn’t sorry he fired without lining up his shot and he’s not sorry to have scared the bastard off.

 

*

 

Mrs Miller was charmed the moment he rang the door bell and sweetly complimented her diamond necklace. She ushered him inside and offered him lemonade and ginger snaps, neither of which Dean is often privileged to, so he graciously accepted. Old ladies are his favourite. All they want is a little bit of attention, to be told they are still lovely despite, or because of, the ravages of time. Dean doesn’t think he’s lying when he says so.

"Are you the boy who’s been taking care of the Jacksons’ yard?" Mrs Miller asks, delicately sipping her lemonade. He nods with a mouth full of ginger snaps. "That’s excellent work, my dear. And you’ve come to offer me the same deal after seeing my scraggly yard? I haven’t been able to get out there much with my arthritis, I’m afraid it’s gotten away from me."

"I’ll do you one better Mrs. Miller." Dean says with his most charming smile, the one that convinces lunch ladies to give him an extra helping of lasagna, and waitresses to wrap him a free slice of pie. "Just five bucks an hour for yard work. That’s half the price the Jacksons pay. I normally don’t sway my prices, Mrs. Miller."

"Oh?" She raises one pale gray eyebrow, smirking devilishly. "And what made you change your mind?"

"I saw you and I couldn’t help it." Dean answers assuredly. Mrs Miller gives a delighted little laugh, one that says she knows what game he is playing, and she’ll happily play along. He’s not lying though. She looked pale and drawn and sad, in a house too big for her now that her three children have grown and her husband has died. She’d looked at him like a ten year old getting ginger snap crumbs all over her antique couch was the high light of her day. "I also have another offer. Ten bucks an hour for other stuff around the house, including yard work. I’m pretty quick around engines and that kinda stuff."

"Alright, my dear. Alright." She laughs again. "You’re quite the little conman. You’d better do good work. Now finish your cookies."

She has him change the porch light and paint the shutters. He shines the tarnished house number, oils the hinge on the mail box, and puts a new screen on the front door. By the time he’s done, the sun looks like it has spilled water colours across the horizon, and Dean knows Sammy will be home soon from soccer practice. Mrs Miller hands him forty bucks right there, and pats his head. "Thanks for the help, my dear."

"No problem, Mrs Miller."

He trudges home forty dollars richer, the money shoved into his sock. Sure, this part of Vermont is nice, stepford and clean, but he doesn’t trust its appearances, just the way Dad taught him.

Sam is peeling off his shin pads when he gets home, uniform and socks scattered on his side of the room. "Hey." He greets with a smile. He’s always beaming after soccer practice. "Where’ve you been? I brought KFC for dinner."

"Out." Dean replies enigmatically. Sam rolls his eyes and tosses a balled sock at him. "Ew, you’re disgusting gigantor!"

"Yeah? Then tell me where you’ve been you little jerk!" Sam tackles him to the bed, tickling him mercilessly.

"Bitch!" Dean snaps between exhausted laughter. He kicks out at Sam to no avail. "Stop, wait, I give, I give!" Sam gives his best bitch face. He’s sweaty and red from practice, there’s grass in his hair. Dean smiles evilly. "If you must know, I had a hot date with an older lady." Sam rolls his eyes, and between the next round of tickling Dean manages to gasp out "she really liked the way I cleaned her pipes!"

"Christ Dean where do you even get this stuff?" Sam sighs, giving him a noogy. "I’m gonna go shower, don’t eat all the coleslaw without me this time."

Dean’s content to nibble on greasy fries and flip channels while Sam is taking a shower. The bills shoved in his sock itch, but he’ll wait until Sam’s asleep to squirrel them into a hidden place in his bag. He knows Sam has a soccer tournament in a few days. He also knows Dad is heading for them soon, he’s nearly done his hunt. The fight when he comes will be catastrophic, so that he hopes Dad isn’t home before Sunday.

But if he is, Dean already knows how he'll make Sam feel better.

He lets Sam eat all the coleslaw in exchange for the breast pieces, and they watch Clint Eastwood movies with the fries shared between them until Dean drops to sleep. He hears, in a vague dream like way, Sam huff fondly and drape a blanket over his body, with a comment that sounds like "you’re getting too big to carry."

 

*

 

When Sam wakes up, he’s only convinced it’s going to be a shit day for all of two seconds. He’s exhausted from a fight with his father about leaving another school, emotionally drained from a tide of too many things; puberty, his first hunt, his first kiss; all happening at once so that for those two seconds, before he smells pancakes, he thinks he’s going to live in a haze of misery forever.

But then, he does smell the pancakes, and he launches himself out of bed to get to the kitchenette, where Dean is scraping a pancake out of a pan unto a massive pile. "Morning, Sammy." Dean beams when he comes in. There’s a bright blooming bruise along the crest of his cheek where Dad caught him by accident with his fist in a hit meant for Sam. He doesn’t even seem to remember its there, smiling happily and whistling ACDC as he pours more batter into the pan. He is only ten but he manages to look centuries, light years, older.

"What’s all this?" Sam mutters, cautiously approaching the rickety kitchen table, gloriously set up with pancakes and orange juice and a sizzling mound of bacon. It is only seven am, and Sam wonders how long Dean has been awake, and where he got the means for these things.

"You had a rough time last night." Dean says. He pauses, spatula in one hand and crumpled napkin in the other, looking down at his feet. "I just wanted you to feel better. Is it--"

"No, Dean, no this is fantastic." He pulls Dean in by the back of his neck, pressing a kiss to that bruise, heartache and guilt knotting around his heart. "You’re always looking after me." He whispers.

Dean slaps him away with exaggerated disgust and just grins his most unaffected grin. "Someone’s gotta. You’re useless on your own."

That someone should be Dad, Sam thinks, not my little brother. But he doesn’t mention that to Dean, who will leap to Dad’s defense. He doesn’t want to ruin this gift. So he sits down and shoves a piece of bacon in his mouth with an appreciative sound. "This is great Dean. You’ve out done yourself."

"Yeah?" Dean smiles so wide it looks like his face will split. "It gets better. Try the pancakes."

Sam peels away a few, and blinks, there’s bananas and peanut butter layered throughout. "Did you make me peanut butter banana pancakes?" He asks, awe filled and so truly happy. Dean looks a little uncomfortable with the affection in his gaze, but Sam can’t help but wonder what he did to deserve a brother so attentive. Most little brothers steal stuff and are general nuisances. And maybe Dean does that too, but then he does stuff like this and--

"Wow Sammy, no chick flick moments. All I did was make your disgusting pancakes. It’s no big deal." He pauses and looks at him, mouth pulling into a delighted grin. "Are you gonna cry? Sammy, you girl--"

Sam sighs and tugs Dean close. There’s flour all down his front, his hands are speckled with peanut butter and splattered bacon grease. Yes, Sam thinks, maybe his salt rounds are never where he leaves him, and maybe Dean takes too long in the shower, and uses his towel. But-- "you’re the best." He says emphatically.

"Alright okay, I’m the best. I know that. Now can we cut this chick flick short before we go you had me at hello in this joint?" Sam snorts, ruffles Dean’s hair and digs into his pancakes.

"Where’d you get the money for all this?" Dean turns away from him to the sink to wash his hands, a tense set in his shoulders that means Sam won’t like his answer. "Dean." Sam asks sharply. "Where’d you get the money?"

"I worked a couple of odd jobs in Vermont. Stocking stores and scrubbing floors and stuff while you were at soccer practice. It’s not like you noticed, no harm no foul."

"By yourself--"

"The lady at this restaurant I washed dishes for gave me pie. It wasn’t that good, but you know I love--"

"Dean, you’re a kid! That’s got to be against child labour laws. What did you need the money for?" Dean shrugs. He moves to sit sullen at the table across from him, shredding a piece of bacon between his fingers.

"There’s not enough for food sometimes, so I thought I could work a little bit, and maybe we could got out for a movie sometime. I--" Dean looks up at him with an expression Sam’s never seen before, desperate and sad and worried. "I know you skip meals for me sometimes, and you say that you’re not hungry, so I need..." He swallows. "I need to repay you."

"That’s not something you can repay Dean, you’re my brother, you’re still growing. It’s just-"

"I need to try." Dean swears. "Even if I can never give you a fraction of what you give me, I need to try." There’s no arguing with Dean when he’s like this.  What’s the point of explaining that worrying about their poverty is not his ten year old responsibility? That he should have fun being a kid, when Dean will just say that it’s his job to do his best for his family, no matter what that means. Sam just sighs.

"Okay Dean. Okay. Thanks for breakfast."

 

*

 

Sam sometimes mentions in passing how much Dad drank when Mom first died. He cried and threw things, and then cried some more, until the seed of vengeance settled in and took root, warping his sorrow into hatred.

Now when he drinks, he writes in his journal, muttering about the Fibonacci sequence and DNA strands and wild theories that don’t make much sense, even when Dean peers over his shoulder to decipher the scribbles he makes.

He used to have good drinking days; barbeques on the fourth of July with a couple of beers at Ellen’s, Christmas at Bobby’s with some of the good stuff, which they would both reverently savour before it was back to rot gut whiskey.

There are no good drinking days any more. Sometimes there aren’t even a lot of good days, period. But May seventeenth is always the worst.

Dad wakes up and drinks and writes. He ignores the breakfast Dean puts at his elbow and drinks and writes. Dean switches breakfast out for lunch, and Dad ignores that too. By the time dinner rolls around, he’s swaying in his seat, expression a horrid mix of tearfulness and hatred. 

Sammy has the good sense to get out of the house they squat in on May seventeenth, but Dean can’t just leave Dad to suffer by himself. Even if that means Dad sometimes shrugs his fretting hands (trying to take care of his broken arm, trying to get him to take his pain medicine, or at least lay down) off with more force than necessary, even if he calls him useless. Dean tries not to take it to heart. Dad just misses Mom, misses good times, misses whatever came before all this.

Dean cleans the guns. The silence is oppressive, so that Dean listens to the scratch of Dad’s furiously writing pen, and the rustle of the gun cloth sliding over metal and Dad’s harsh breathing and his own, much softer breathing. He wonders if Dad even knows he’s there, or if Dean’s just gotten very good at disappearing once a year, even if he’s right there. He pretends he doesn’t exist for twenty four hours.

Sammy comes home at half past eight, carrying an armful of books that he dumps onto his side of the bed. "You haven’t moved all day." He says to Dad, disappointment and disgust colouring his voice. Don’t. Dean wants to say, but he doesn’t exist so he says nothing. 

"Where’ve you been?" Dad slurs, glaring blearily up at Sammy.

"Out, Dad, I doubt you even noticed, so don’t take that tone of voice with me." Sammy glances around the room for Dean, who peers at him over the back of the pull out sofa. 

"Yeah, and where’s that useless little twerp you call a brother?" Dad snarls, glaring around the room so that Dean ducks down behind the sofa, hands over his mouth out of some strange fear Dad will suddenly be able to hear his ragged breathing. "Hiding like a church mouse because he knows if I had two hands I would throttle him."

Dean quakes, and he’s sorry sorry sorry he messed up, maybe if Dad would just beat him this waiting in anticipation and fear could end.

"Dad!" Sammy snaps. "It wasn’t his fault you fucked up."

"The little shit couldn’t even watch my back properly, hesitated at the shot--"

"He’s eleven, Dad, and he was scared. It’s your fault for taking him out there--"

"He has to be out there." Dad is right. "He has to learn so he can beat back the fear and keep fighting" this is all his fault, he never should have hesitated, never should have let fear rule him, he is weak, he is pathetic--

"Stop talking about him like that!" Sammy yells, slamming him palms down on the table, scattering empty whiskey bottles and used pens. "Don’t you ever--!" He breathes hard through his nose, and stands straight, digging around in his pockets. 

He moves to Dean and heaves him from the couch and pushes him out the door, slapping a crumpled five into his palm. "I think I saw an ice cream truck on my way back. It should be coming this way any second." Sammy struggles to say calmly. "Frankly, I don’t want you here listening to Dad when he’s like this." He pulls Dean close by the back of his neck and presses a kiss to his forehead. "He doesn’t mean it okay? So don’t believe him."

Dean nods dumbly, and when the motel door closes he sits down on the step outside. The ice cream truck comes and goes, but Dean doesn’t get up.

"That’s why he’s so weak. Look how much you spoil him."

"It’s not spoiling to protect him from the drunken ravings of a mad man." There’s a scuffle, and Dean wants to cover his ears, but forces himself to listen. "If I ever hear you talking to Dean like that again, drunk or not, I’ll put you on your ass, Dad."

"It’s true--"

"It’s not true. But you know he'll believe it. He catches every word you say like it’s made of gold."

Dean waits until they’re quiet, and he can hear Dad’s snores even through the door before he comes back in. Sammy tries to smile, until he sees the crumpled five still in Dean’s loose fist. "Oh Dean." he sighs. He wraps him in his big arms, rocking them both. "Don’t believe a word he said Dean. Not a single word."

 

*

 

It is approaching three am. Sam regrets leaving his essay until the last minute, but researching Dad’s case had him swamped. He consults a well worn copy of Romeo and Juliet, dissecting Mercutio’s soliloquy, when suddenly Dean is on his bed, crumpling his papers. "Dude!" Sam flops back against the rickety head board tiredly, but when he looks at Dean, he doesn’t get the shit eating grin and the usual “see, this is why your younger brother is the cooler one,” ribbing about being a nerd. Dean looks tense and pensive, his jaw tight and his eyes hooded. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I’m okay Sammy." Dean answers on autopilot, but he doesn’t look up, still lost in thought. Sam sits up and sets his book aside, studying his little brother.

"Something on your mind?" He prompts, and when Dean finally looks at him he puts on his best listening face, the earnest one with liquid eyes that Dean’s never once been able to lie to.

"Do you think I might be a fag?" Dean blurts. Sam blinks, but Dean doesn’t give him a moment to question. "I mean, there’s this one kid some of the boys in my school rip on cause he likes boys, and everyone calls him a fag and there’s this guy two grades above me and--" Dean looks up at Sam with terror, like the bottom of his world has fallen out and he doesn’t know what to make of the remainder. "I think... I think maybe he’s cute?"

Sam disregards his notes to pull Dean closer, papers rustling and crumpling as Dean settles in his arms. "First off, don’t say fag. That’s offensive." Dean snorts. "Second off. Gay or not--"

"I’m not gay!" Dean protests. "I like girls. I like them a lot. Maybe it’s just this one guy. Maybe I can quit it--"

"Dean, there’s nothing wrong with you. There’s nothing wrong with liking this boy, or any other boy. It doesn’t erase all the girls you’ve liked to like boys too. It’s called bisexuality, and it’s normal." Dean mulls this over, staring at the half finished essay on his screen without really seeing anything.

"Do you think..." Dean starts, and looks up at Sam, fingers clenching in the sleeves of Sam’s sweater. "Do you think Dad would hate me?"

"Dean--"

"I mean, he always says--"

"Dean… Dad is the product of a really ignorant time. People in Dad’s time used to think it was wrong to date anyone who isn’t white, remember?" Dean nods along, but doesn’t look convinced. Sam doesn’t know how to comfort him. What does he say to his bisexual, or at least potentially bi curious brother, in a world with homophobia engrained in the very culture? "Dad wouldn’t hate you. He’d be confused for a bit, but he wouldn’t hate you."

Dean shakes his head. Sam gets the feeling he isn’t getting through to him, and it sits like rocks in his belly. "You’re not gonna tell him are you? About any of this? I don’t want him to know--"

"I’m not gonna tell him Dean. I wouldn’t do that to you. But if you ever wanna talk about this, I’m here, okay, and I don’t judge you."

"You don’t think I’m a freak?" That word has always hit Sam hard, he hates it, and he hates that his little brother will grow to hate it because of a few ignorant little shits in his backwater middle school and their traditionalist Dad, who only comes around long enough to impart some mold that Dean desperately tries to squeeze into.

"You’re anything but a freak, Dean." Sam assures.

Dean smiles softly and sadly. "Thanks Sammy." He rolls off Sam’s notes to deposit them in his lap, but he doesn’t leave his side again for the rest of the night.

 

*

 

"You boys ready?" Dad calls through the door, propping it open with his foot. Dean’s things are already packed and waiting neatly at the end of his bed. He’s trying to gather Sammy’s petulantly scattered clothes and pack them away while he sulks in the washroom.

"Sammy’s almost done." He says, matching a pair of socks. Dad’s brow furrows. Dean lowers his gaze cautiously, and continues packing, so as to avoid their father’s ire. There’s going to be a fight. There’s always a fight, but some are worse than others. The temperature of the room seems to drop, fear and lightening racing across his skin. If he doesn’t stop it now this fight will be monumental.

"Why don’t you go wait in the car, Dad, and I’ll tell Sammy to hurry up." Dean tries, subtly crossing in front of the bathroom door to block Dad’s path.

"What’s taking him so long?" Dad sighs with exasperation. "I told you boys to be ready when I got in--"

"I know, Dad. Sammy just likes to look pretty and take care of his stupid hair. I’ll make him hurry so --" Dad doesn’t listen. He pushes Dean aside and pounds on the door, demanding Sammy come outside. "Dad." Dean pleads, tugging the back of his Leather jacket. "Dad come on, let me--"

"Don’t bother, Dean, he’s so stubborn he won’t listen to you." Sam says pointedly when he opens the door. Dean thinks that their father isn’t the only stubborn one, but instead, tries to convey with his eyes not to fight Dad, just this once. "Once he’s made up his mind he doesn’t give a shit what you want, or what would make you happy."

"Sammy, please." Dean whispers, trying in vain to tug Dad away again. "Please, not this morning, please." but Sammy isn’t looking at him either. He hates when they get like this, he hates the fighting. They’re always fighting. He feels nauseous, but swallows it down and struggles with his father. He holds his wrist in the hopes that maybe that will hinder any of his punches.

"If this is about the hunt, it was a necessary evil--"

"You used Dean as bait Dad. You just put him on a hook like a worm and tossed him out without a second thought. If I hadn’t been there--"

"I’m the right age to attract the monster, Sammy, would you have asked some other kid to do it--"

"Stop defending him!" Sammy howls. Dean blinks, mollified. "For once in your life stop defending him! There’s no excuse for this. A real father would never put his son in danger like that. Not for anything." He turns to Dad again, face pinched and stance furious. Dean’s afraid to even look at Dad, hugging his clenched fist to his chest.

"Dean, go put your shit in the car." Dad barks. Dean jumps, afraid to leave Sammy alone, afraid to let go of his father’s fist, afraid that somehow they’ll tear each other to pieces in the seconds it’ll take him to put his bag away.

"You don’t have to do anything he says if you don’t want to, Dean." Sammy growls, but he is glaring right at Dad, hand wrapped angrily around Dean’s shoulder to jerk him away from their father’s side.

"I’m the father here, and he’ll do what I say. Dean, go put your fucking shit in the car."

"Maybe if you started acting like a father--!" 

"Stop it!" Dean screams. "Stop putting me in the middle of your fights, stop fighting, just for five minutes!" They both blink down at him as though they just noticed he’s there. "Yeah Sammy, that was a shitty thing for Dad to do, but I’m alright. You guys rescued me, so I’m fine, now let it go." He doesn’t bother starting in on Dad. Sammy’s right, he’s stubborn, and besides, the hunt always comes first. If the thought makes him bitter, he thinks more about pushing down the swell of nausea and light headedness and the throb of his shoulder.

"But--"

"Shut up, Sammy, I honestly don’t wanna hear it. My shoulder hurts like a bitch and I think I deserve pecan pie. So we're gonna put our shit in the car, and drive to some place with pecan pie, and you’re gonna give me five minutes to listen to Zeppelin in peace." He throws down his father’s fist now that it’s unclenched, grabs his and Sam’s things and storms out.

He feels like a steaming pile of shit, is his last coherent thought before he blacks out.

When he wakes he’s stretched out in the back seat of the impala, Sammy’s sweater rolled behind his head and Dad’s leather jacket draped over his curled body. He shakes and aches and generally wants to die, but he pushes that aside to listen to hushed voices from the front seat.

"This is all your fault." Sammy accuses.

"My fault?" Dad barks back.

"That thing fucking shredded him, Dad, right in front of me. He was bleeding out in my hands." Sammy sounds so tired and sad, Dean’s sorry he hadn’t been quicker, hadn’t seen the thing earlier, just so he didn’t scare him so bad. "Do you even get how terrifying that was?"

Dad doesn’t reply, and it’s the stony silence that means his reply will either be heartless, or just not heartfelt enough to please Sam, and he doesn’t want to start a fight again by saying the wrong thing. Dean’s glad Dad can sometimes think before he speaks.

"Dad sometimes I wonder if you even care." Dean flinches, because now Sammy’s just asking for it.

Dad doesn’t yell though. He just sighs. "I care, Sam." He murmurs. "I know I’m not always-- but I care a lot."

"Then start showing it Dad."

Dean makes exaggerated waking noises and sits up, his arms shaking and weak.

"There you are, kiddo. We got you your pecan pie." Sammy grins at him. Dad is smiling when he looks into the rear view mirror, and Dean is glad they are pretending for his sake.

 

*

 

Dean is asleep when he leaves. He writes a note, something along the lines of "I’m alright Dean, Dad will be back tomorrow. I just needed space." 

Space, Sam chuckles to himself, sitting in the cab of a trucker kind enough to pick him up with a "where to kid?" He’d said it didn’t matter. Now he knows it really doesn’t. On this quest for space, every half lit motel sign, every truck stop and diner, the name of every coming city, reminds him of his father. He wants to go somewhere that hasn’t been ruined by bitter memories of listening to Dean wave Dad goodbye at the door, of listening to the impala roar away and wondering what will be taken from him the next time Dad roars back into their lives.

Dean will worry, he knows, and he’s sorry that he pulled a disappearing act, but if Dean had tried to talk him out of it, eventually he would have caved. He always does, when Dean puts on an authoritative voice.

Dean will worry and search the town over twice. He will think, somehow in that twisted little head of his, that Sam leaving is somehow his fault, that it’s him he so desperately longs to escape from. Sam regrets that too, and feels selfish for not wanting to deal with any of this, not the job, not his Dad, not his little brother.

"You alright kid?" The trucker asks, casting him a quick sideways glance. He reminds Sam of Bobby, but that only because he’s a portly man in his middle ages wearing a truckers’ cap, asides from that he’s south Asian, with a full beard and twinkling eyes that do not speak of years of hardship. He has a picture of a wife and three daughters in glittering saris taped to his dashboard.

"Yeah, just thinking."

"About what?" The trucker shrugs when Sam glances at him in question. "I’ve a long drive ahead of me. A long story will keep me awake."

Sam lets it all go, a dam burst and a river gushing free. He edits some parts, the parts that can’t be explained to normal civilians, but he tells this kindly truck driver with only a passing resemblance to Bobby all his grievances, and feels better when he stops. The trucker nods along, humming in the right places, and Sam feels something warm in his chest that someone is actually listening. He remains quiet after Sam’s done. "So...what do you think?" He prompts.

"It’s not my place to comment on the lives of other people, but--"

"I wanna hear what you have to say." He encourages.

"If that’s the case, I think despite how much you resent your family for asking too much of you, you still care about them. I think that getting your space is a good thing, but this isn’t the way to do it."

"Why not?"

"You feel so guilty for dropping all your responsibilities, you haven’t stopped thinking about your little brother once. Real freedom, when you part with your family on good terms, won’t taste so bitter."

Sam leans back against his seat and mulls that over. He smirks to himself and shakes his head. Despite everything, he’s still not free. It’s laughable.

He still spends two weeks in flagstaff Arizona, with a dog named Bones and more pizza than he ever wants to eat again. Maybe the freedom is bitter, but it’s still sweeter than anything he’s ever had before.

 

*

 

"I just don’t get why you care." Dean groans, flopping back on the motel bed. His back pack falls off the edge, but there’s nothing but a few papers in it, all of which have girls numbers scribbled on them. "School doesn’t matter; the only thing it’s good for is picking up chicks." Like Lucinda Meyers, sixteen, cheerleader. She thinks he’s cute. She kissed him on a dare in front of her friends, and decided she liked it enough to try for more. 

Sammy lets out a yell of frustration as he dumps his own back pack on the table, significantly heavier than Dean’s. "School isn’t for match making, you little jerk. How do you expect to get a good job if you can’t even get into university?"

Dean sits up and frowns at him, studying the strain of his shoulders and the angry/disappointed/sad twist of his mouth. "I already have a job, Sammy."

"Oh yeah?"

"I’m a hunter. Or a will be when I’m big enough. That’s a good job. It’s an important job. I was born to do it."

Sammy fairly screams at him. "Who are you trying to impress Dean? Are you so tightly wrapped around Dad’s finger you can’t see how shitty this all is? Don’t you want anything for yourself?" Like what, Dean thinks, biting the inside of his cheek to hold in the hot tears pricking his eyes and constricting his throat. "There’s more to life than trailing along behind me and Dad cleaning up his messes and taking care of me like some kind of servant." Like what? "God!" he barks a distressed little laugh, exasperated and exhausted by Dean’s silence. Dean isn’t like Dad, he doesn’t yell back. "Do you think this is what Mom wanted for you?"

"Well I wouldn’t know would I?" Dean snaps. He immediately regrets it for the pinched, beaten look Sammy gets. "I mean--"

"No." Sammy sighs. He gentles his voice and kneels before him. "No, you’re right, you really wouldn’t know. I barely know. But you’ve got to know that hunting isn’t the only thing. You can’t possibly want to be Dad’s soldier--"

"Soldier?!" Dean repeats incredulously, sudden fury flaring in him that he clamps down on. "I’m not Dad’s soldier! I’m just being a good son, and a good brother, until I’m big enough to be of use to you, to pull my own weight--"

Sammy sighs through his nose. "You haven’t heard a word I said."

That’s not true, Dean thinks. He’s heard everything and more. He can read between the lines. Sammy isn’t happy. No matter how hard Dean tries, it doesn’t seem enough to satisfy him. He swallows a sob, and moves jerkily away from the fight to start dinner. 

He'll make his favourites, and then maybe he'll forget he’s unhappy, just for a little while. He reaches the cupboard and pulls down pancake mix, tossing some in a bowl and mixing in water. Behind him, Sammy makes a tired sound in his throat. "Dean." He sighs. "What are you doing?"

"What’s it look like?" Dean snaps, but doesn’t turn to him, because he’s sure he'll be able to see the unshed tears. "I’m making dinner."

"You’re not making peanut butter banana pancakes are you?"

"Yeah, so?"

"You hate peanut butter banana pancakes." 

"I hate a lot of things, Sammy." Dean snarls, and he really doesn’t know where this fury comes from, but he lets it out because it feels like a long time coming. "I hate that I haven’t had a quiet family dinner with you and Dad in the same room without getting punched in the face getting between an argument. I hate that you’re always on me to do better, to be something else. I’m not that Sammy. I’m not you. I’m not smart enough. And I hate that you want me to fight Dad. I don’t wanna fight Dad. I just wanna be the best hunter I can be. Why can’t--" Dean swallows and turns and hopes that his eyes aren’t glistening with tears the way Sammy’s are. "Why can’t that be enough for you?"

Sammy swallows roughly too, and moves to Dean, putting his big hands on his shoulders. "I just want what’s best for you. What’s best for us. This life isn’t it."

"No, Sammy. You want what’s best for you. And that’s okay." He looks like Dean’s slapped him, but Dean can’t do anything about that. He shrugs off Sammy’s hands and goes back to making the pancakes.

 

*

 

The acceptance letter to Stanford lays crumpled at his feet. There’s a boot mark on it, and his cheek aches with his father’s punch. Sam firmly stands his ground. He’s not going to let his Dad ruin this. 

"You’re just going to abandon your family?" John demands. “I thought I raised you better than that.” His voice is dangerously low, and that has always been scarier than his yelling. But Sam’s legally an adult now, he’s not afraid of his father anymore.

"I’m not abandoning you. It’s not like I’ll stop existing when I go to Stanford, I’ll still--"

"You’ll stop existing to me." John hisses coldly, and Sam feels those words drill into his chest and hook there. "You’re so willing to throw off your responsibilities--"

"Dad!" Dean interrupts, stepping between them both, hands on their chests to pry them apart. "Stop it both of you, before you say something you can’t take back." Sam glances down. He’s never realized how small he is until now. Dean has been stepping between these fights all his life, since he was old enough to form words without lisping. That’s not fair on Dean; it’s not fair on either of them to live like this-- 

"You have responsibilities too, Dad, and you’ve never lived up to them, not once. You have an obligation to this family, to us, but every time I turn around you’re somewhere else."

"The job is important, Sam. Would you like people to keep dying?" Dean pushes back on their stomachs to keep them from getting in each others’ faces, his expression twisted and anxious, and it all just spurs Sam on, makes him angrier.

"People are always dying Dad, that’s the way the world works! What about your job as a father? You just gonna keep Dean on a leash, keep him stupid and loyal so he comes when you call like a dog, so he never questions what’s out there, what’s important?"

"Stop it." Dean whispers.

"Dean knows what’s important, and its right here, in the job, saving people and hunting things. No one cares that you aren’t happy Sam. It’s a shitty job, it’s a shitty life, but someone’s got to do it. Dean knows that."

"Stop it." Dean’s voice shakes. Sam snarls at his father, anticipates another punch and almost begs for it just so he can punch back. He’s so angry he feels like he could crush bones.

"Dean doesn’t know anything else. All he knows is you and this shit hole you’ve raised us in and you like it that way. I’ve got to show him there’s more."

"Stop using Dean as an excuse Sam. If you’re not happy, if you want Stanford so bad, get out." John gestures at the motel room door. "Get out and don’t look back. I don’t need you. Dean doesn’t need you. He hasn’t needed you since he was six. So leave, Sam. I won’t stop you." Sam feels his shoulders tremble, Dean’s fingers curl in his shirt. "But if you walk out that door. Don’t come back. If you’re going, stay gone."

It feels like John’s punched him. Sam takes the hit, nods once and grabs his bag. "Sammy, stop!" Dean wails. He’s crying. Of course he’s crying; that’s the worst fight they’ve ever been in. "Sammy stop, you know Dad’s just angry, he’s just angry that you wanna leave us, Sammy, please don’t go!" He throws himself on Sam, trying childishly to hinder his movement, but Sam barrels right through.

"I have to go, Dean, I can’t stand this fucking place anymore." Sam hisses. Dean wails louder, arms wrapped around his middle, refusing to let go even as Sam pries him away. He could wake the dead with the noise he’s making.

"I can make it better. Tell me what I’m doing wrong, tell me how to fix it and I can make it so good! I can be good enough just please--" he sputters and babbles, his face is red and wet. "Please don’t leave me, please."

"I have to go Dean, there’s nothing you can do or say to change it." Sam says again, gentler, hands on his shoulders pushing him to arms length. If something goes dull and dark in Dean’s eyes, Sam ignores it. He closes the trunk on his things, climbs into the car and slams the door shut. Dean stands there and stares in his ACDC shirt and a pair of old sweats that might actually be Sam’s. Dean looks so tiny there. 

He doesn’t need him, Dad said. He’ll be fine even if Sam never comes back, he assures himself.

Then Sam turns forward and drives away, and doesn’t look back once because he knows, if he sees Dean collapsed to the pavement in grief, like a puppet with cut strings, he will turn around and gather him close and never think of leaving him again.

 

*

 

Dad is silent. He doesn’t turn the radio on, he doesn’t glance in Dean’s direction, and Dean knows what he means to say without saying a word. It’s his fault Sam left. It’s his fault for not being good enough to make Sam want to stay, hell, it’s his fault they fight all the time, since somehow their arguments always circle back to him.

Disappointment. Dad says without saying a thing. Useless, worthless, stupid disappointment. 

Dean’s tears have dried. He bets he must have looked disgusting crying in front of Sammy. He bets he was appalled at how weak he was. Dad had merely thrown their bags in the back when Sammy was long gone, bundled Dean in his leather jacket, picked him up off the pavement and tucked him into the front seat of the impala. This is Sam’s spot, Dean thinks.

When Dad dumps him off in Virginia, Dean blows all his money on booze and strippers and shitty poker games. He wanders the grimy back alleys of Richmond, drunk and stupid and unable to forget.

He’s sure he fucks people but faces blur together so that he can’t tell dull grey eyes from chocolate brown and everything in between, until his body is a road map of other people, the bruises of their finger tips around his jaw and throat, wrists and chest and thighs and hips. He is just an ache and an itching like hunger because no matter how many people he takes to bed, he still feels lost. 

If Dad calls to check in, he misses the calls for the first time in fourteen years. He’s hungry, but he doesn’t know if it’s a hunger for purpose or for food.

He sucked some guy off for a candy bar because he told him he’s pretty in a slurred holler from across the street. It seemed like a good idea at the time, now he feels like throwing up cum and chocolate and nail polish remover masquerading as vodka.

At night he curls in a nest of pillows and listens to the leaky faucet in the shitty motel room. Every time he dozes, another drop wakes him. The room is too quiet; no one sleeping in the bed beside his, breathing deep and heavy, no one tossing and turning and muttering in his sleep. He’s alone, and the word seems to echo around and around his head to the beat the faucet makes. 

Alone. Drip. Alone. Drip drip. Alone. Drip.

He feels like he’s going insane.

Dad is furious when he gets into the motel, shaking him from his nest where he’s lain listlessly for three days, unwilling to get up. He sees no reason to cook, to live. Dad shakes him a little harder and hisses obscenities beneath his breath.

Dean wants to say he’s sorry he’s such a disappointment, he’s sorry he let Sammy go, but he hasn’t the energy to say anything. His apologies won’t bring him back.

Dad dumps him off in Hurleyville, New York, and it’s the same story, booze and bodies and bets. He fucks up stealing something to eat and gets caught. He doesn’t see his father after that for two months. And even then, it is just the car ride to Bobby’s before he’s gone again.

"C’mere boy," Bobby sighs with gruff affection, tugging Dean in close. "C’mere. This has done a number on you hasn’t it." Bobby smells like three different kinds of liquor and drug store soap and motor oil. Dean buries his face in it and breathes deep to staunch the threat of tears. "I know it’s hard. And I know you don’t really know how to deal, since Sam’s been there your whole life. But do you think Sam would wanna see you beating yourself up like this?"

"Who cares?" Dean groans. "I never lived up to his expectations before--"

"Sam was just pursuing happiness, Dean. It’s one of his constitutional rights."

"Didn’t I make him happy enough?" Dean mumbles into Bobby’s chest. "Wasn’t I good enough--"

"This isn’t on you Dean. None of this is on you."

But that doesn’t feel true. Dean feels like he might as well have told Sammy himself to leave and never come back.

 

*

 

"So where you from?" Jess asks, toying with the neck of her beer bottle. Sam can’t help but watch her fingers; her nails are painted a subtle, shimmery pink. She smiles like she knows exactly what she’s doing and Sam just chuckles.

"Don’t really remember any more." He allows, because it’s true. The only solid home he’s ever had is the leather seats of his Dad’s god forsaken car. But he doesn’t want to bring that bitterness to a first date.

"Yeah, Brady told me I wouldn’t get a straight answer outta you." She smiles. "Mr tall and mysterious."

"Not that mysterious." Sam smiles. "Just an army brat. I’ve been to every crack and crevice of this country."

"Must be worth it for the food. The pizza of new York and literally everything that Louisiana has to offer." Jess exclaims, there’s a sparkle in her eye as she pictures the adventure of it, and Sam loves that sparkle so much, he doesn’t want to dull it with the reality of his travels. He doesn’t want to tarnish Jess with everything that came before.

"Ah, maybe" he allows. "I wouldn’t know, my brother’s the foodie." If he aches even mentioning Dean, he tries not to let it show. It must work because Jess leans forward eagerly.

"You have a brother? Older or younger?"

"Younger by four years. He’s something else, food makes him so happy. He had this thing for a couple years, where he’d collect restaurant reviews from tourist guides and try one thing at every place. Or he’d go to the skeeziest looking little places right, and he’d tell me, okay Sammy, this is gonna go one of two ways. We're either about to have the best homemade coconut shrimp, or we're going to get e coli."

"Why would he say that?" Jess laughs, her eyes are still twinkling, Sam’s chest is still aching, but sharing these parts of Dean, these parts that even their Dad doesn’t know, with her is nice. He thinks of Dean at some taco stand in New Mexico, grinning and telling Sam "this is how you do it, old el paso got nothing on this." 

"According to his logic, tiny places are either run by the mafia as a front, or by friendly little old black ladies, who do some hoodoo on the side for good luck and know their way around a kitchen. One will give us e coli, and the other, awesome food."

"How many times was he right?"

"Every time we're in New York we've been sick.” He waggles his eyebrows so she catches his meaning. “He’s gotten us food poisoning a couple times. But he’s also gotten us some amazing food." Jess can’t stop laughing, and Sam is laughing now too, and the tight ache he felt without Dean is easing. "He’s a great cook too, the things he can do with half a pack of pasta and some mayo is illegal. It’s half the reason living here on res is so hard, I miss his home cooking."

"Your little brother’s home cooking?" Jess repeats, and the laughter’s gone, replaced by concern that could morph into pity, and he hates that.

"Mom died in a fire, Dad has frankly been loopy every since. I used to do the cooking for the two of us but then," he laughs at the memory alone, because he needs to share this with Jess, needs to get her laughing again. "Dean was like, four maybe, and I was just making mac and cheese on the stove, and he just stomped over to me and glowered, right, with his puffy cheeks, and yelled "ugh, Sammy, you’re ruining it!" And I haven’t been able to cook to his standards since." There, there’s the sparkle.

"Ugh, Sammy, you’re ruining it!" She laughs. 

"Can you imagine being yelled at by a four year old for leaving pasta on too long? He had me drain the water, and was inspecting the noodles and he gave this little sigh and said "no saving it now but I’ll do my best." And I won’t lie, that mac and cheese came out better than I ever made it."

He misses Dean. He wishes he could meet Jess. He wishes Dean could see all the wonderful things he can do, people he can meet, now that he’s out of the life. 

 

*

 

"Winchester."  Mr Sullivan calls. His students affectionately call him Sully, they speak to him colloquially. But Dean’s never really been that close with him. He’s far from valedictorian or teacher’s pet. What’s the point when he’s just going to leave again in a few weeks? "Approach my desk please."

Dean does, and he tries hard not to fidget with the model cars lining his desk. "Yes sir." He says when the last student has filed at of the class room. "I haven’t done anything wrong lately, have I sir?"

"That’s just it, Dean." He blinks at the use of his first name. Sully only uses the first names of his favourite students. But maybe it’s because they’re one on one. "I’ve noticed a significant increase in all your marks across the board. And while I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, I just wanted to know what brought on the change in school attitude?"

"Got nothing better to do." Dean shrugs. Dad is on another hunt, a little more complicated than the average salt and burn, and Dean would just be in the way. Sammy’s gone. He clamps down on the cold feeling that settles in his belly. 

"What do you mean?" Sully frowns, tipping his head to regard him. He’s a youngish looking man, with crows feet and dark hair with a single streak of grey at his temple. He has a tattoo on his forearm of a bird with a flower in its beak that only shows when he rolls up his sleeves to write on the chalk board, and he wears ties with cartoon characters on them. Despite how trustworthy he seems, Dean can’t explain. So he shrugs again.

There’s no better reason, he merely has nothing else to do. There’s no one to worry about, no one to cook for, no one to pick up after, no one to talk to, he’s so achingly alone, that sometimes studying helps him forget that Sammy’s gone, and Dad left him behind again. Sammy’s just gone. He’s lost, and purposeless, and it doesn’t feel liberating, it feels suffocating.

"Okay, well, whatever the reason for the change, keep it up. I’m proud of you."

Dean blinks. "What."

"What what?" Sully laughs. "You went from a passing grade to an eighty in the span of a few tests. You have knowledge of the work so profound I’m almost tempted to let you teach the class. I’m only half way through your essay, but it’s so good I wish it was a novel so I could just keep reading. You’re an impressive student, Dean, I wouldn’t even hesitate to call you a genius, and I’m proud that you’ve put so much effort in."

Dean gapes. Something flutters in his belly pleasantly, similar to the feeling he gets when Dad tells him what a good shot he is, or when Sammy ruffles his hair and tells him what a good cook he is. Proud. He floats on the feeling he likes it so much. Proud. He said it twice even. His shocked expression melts into a smile more real than its felt in months. "Thank you." He says earnestly. 

"Don’t thank me." Sully says warmly. "It’s been in there all along--" suddenly Dean is around the desk, knocking papers and toy cars and picture frames aside to straddle his teacher. He wants -- he’s not sure what he wants, but he presses his lips to Sully’s and thinks, yes this. This feels good, and he wants more. Sully makes a surprised noise in his throat, hands flailing before gripping his shoulders while Dean holds his face and sucks at his lips, nipping them teasingly. He knows he’s a good kisser, and he needs-- "Dean." Sully gasps, pulling away abruptly. Dean struggles forward for more, isn’t sure why Sully isn’t moaning into his mouth. "Dean, stop, I don’t think--"

"Don’t say no. Don’t make me stop. Don’t reject me. Don’t abandon me. Please I just want..." He wonders if it’s normal to want someone to say they are proud of him, to take care of him and tell him all the time that he’s done well. Dean swallows thickly and tries again, puts on his most seductive voice, the one that makes panties drop and gets him drinks in bars even though he’s way underage. "Can be whatever you want." He whispers, trailing his fingers up Sully’s scooby doo tie. "Can make it so good, whatever you want, anything you ask--"

"Dean." Sully says sharply, he digs his fingers hard into Dean’s tender shoulders, shaking him a little as though hoping to knock some sense into him. "Dean, you don’t want this. And frankly, even if you do, I don’t." All Dean can hear is that another person doesn’t want him. It doesn’t matter how proud he makes them, how hard he tries to be what they want, no one wants him. He feels something shatter in his chest that leaves him even more hollow than he was before, shoulders slumping. "Dean," Sully says gently.

"Don’t bother." Dean climbs off him, jerking out of his grip. He’s shaking, and he curls his hands into fists so that Sully can’t see. "Just forget about this. It won’t be hard. I’ll be gone soon anyway." He turns, but Sully grabs him back.

"Dean." He sounds so regretful, so full of sorrow, and Dean wishes he’d just taken the compliment instead of trying for more. Nothing good ever happens when he tries for more than what he’s been allowed. "You’re a smart boy, and I’m flattered that you’d be interested in me that way, but do you understand why I can’t allow this kind of behaviour?"

"Can’t or won’t?" Dean asks hollowly. He immediately regrets saying anything when Sully’s mouth pulls tight and his brows furrow in disappointment. He tries to tug free again, but Sully won’t let him go, even though this is clearly mortifying for both of them. "I won’t tell anyone, sir, just--"

"No, I need to explain this to you." Sully gives a long suffering sigh. "I can’t and won’t give you what you’re looking for, Dean. You want validation and affection that I can’t give beyond what is appropriate for a teacher, that a boyfriend your own age might be able to give you. Why don’t we go to the guidance counselor, and --"

"Don’t bother." Dean at last gets away from Sully. "It doesn’t matter. None of it matters." He runs out of the room, the school, back to the empty motel room where he feels like he can’t breathe. He swallows air and doesn’t cry. No one can give him what he needs. He’s tried and he’s looked but nothing can fill the ache.

In a couple hours, he calls Cassidy Singh and asks her if she’d like him to eat her out until she loses count of how many times she’s come, and is comforted by her resounding yes.

 

*

 

Dean’s okay. Dean doesn’t need him, hasn’t needed him since he was six, making his own breakfast and bandaging his own booboos. Dean is fifteen now, he must be okay. 

Guilt takes a bite of Sam’s heart and holds on. He shouldn’t have left, it whispers to him when he pauses just long enough to think. Sometimes he’s okay, sometimes he goes to class and finishes assignments and takes Jess out for dinner and he forgets the guilt. He can put the guilt of leaving on the back burner, especially when he’s around Jess. But it always comes back tighter and harder than before.

He shouldn’t have left Dean alone with their father, should have waited a bit until Dean was bigger. Would it have made that much difference to wait until Dean was finished high school, an adult in his own right?

He couldn’t wait, he tells himself, tells the guilt. He had to get out, get away, be free for just a little while. And Dean’s okay. Dean’s always been okay.

He does not think of Dean, alone in some shitty motel in Oregon or Michigan or Alabama, eating canned noodles out of the pot to avoid making more dishes, patiently waiting for Dad to tell him he’s big enough to be of use. Of use, he’d say, like he’s some sort of tool to be sharpened and thrown away. Of use, he’d say, like he has no other value, like there is just the hunt and nothing else, so that when he isn’t on it he’s a burden.

And who would have taught him better if not Sam? Dad certainly isn’t going to do it, Dad will be all the happier with just Dean, who just took to hunting like a fish to water, better than Sam, who doesn’t argue with him about anything, doesn’t --

Sam doesn’t regret going to Stanford, but he does regret going so soon.  He picks up his phone and stares at it. Thinks of calling, but to say what? Sorry I abandoned you to our drill sergeant father, who is drunk more often than he’s sober. Sorry I left you standing barefoot in the night after you pleaded with me not to go. I’ve never seen you petulant, never seen you throw a temper tantrum, but I broke your heart and you tried everything to get me to stay and mend things. I’m sorry that I didn’t think things were worth mending. I’m sorry I didn’t think you were enough to stay for.

I’m sorry I confirmed in the single action of ducking into my car and refusing to look back at you in the rear view mirrors, all the horrible things you think true of yourself.

What good would any of that be to Dean, if he still wasn’t going to come back? 

 

*

 

Dad is hunting a werewolf in Delaware. He’s known about it for a little while, but had to wait until the next full moon for it to reveal itself. He sends Dean on his first solo hunt in Wyoming. Sam went on his first solo hunt when he was fourteen, and Dad had been so proud of him. Dean chalks it up to Sam being smarter than him.

"Aha!" Dean exclaims softly. Someone a couple seats over glares at him for the small noise, and when they’ve turned away, Dean pulls a face. He’s been at the library all day, researching the history of a haunted convent. He finds the hand written journal of the mother superior in the archives, and in it, she spins out the tragic story of nuns Susanna and Ada, who fell in love and were burnt for heresy, among other things, when they were discovered.

Dean feels sorry for the ghosts who must hate that they wander around each other, hopelessly in love, unable to touch, and growing angry enough to kill because of it. The pity ends there though. He has a job to do.

The only things left of the nuns’ are a couple of prayer books and rosaries, a habit with some blood on it and a handkerchief with Sister Susanna’s initials on it. They are kept on the convent grounds. Dean sneaks in after dark, armed with a crow bar and a sawed off loaded with salt rounds.

He makes it to a seldom used chapel, finding his way down cobwebbed halls in the dark with only a flashlight’s watery bean to light his way. The chapel’s old wooden door creaks open when Dean nudges it, and he peers cautiously into the gap he makes. It looks more like a tomb than a chapel, the whole place reeks of despair.

The ghosts are here, he can feel them, he just can’t see them yet.

He steps into the room and searches the little plaques located along the far wall behind the altar and finds Ada Roland, 1803-1835. He puts his flash light in his mouth to hook the crowbar beneath the plaque, and jerks it down. When the plaque pops free, Dean feels his hair stand on end, his breath coming in frosted puffs.

He whips around, and a woman, just barely more than a girl, in a charred, white frock, her black curls frizzy and errant, snarls at him. "You can’t take her from me, you can’t take her from me, you can’t-!" Dean shoots a round off and turns quickly back to the plaque, prying it free. It drops to the floor with an echoing crash.

Dean’s shoved from the little cubby hole behind the plaque by another woman, older than the first, her blonde hair just as mussed as her girlfriend’s, her frock just as charred. She sends Dean sprawling into the altar, crossing jamming uncomfortably into his ribs. "We may burn in hell but we burn together." She says. She reaches for Dean’s chest, and disappears with a cry when Dean slashes her with the crow bar.

Stupid, he admonishes himself, dousing the items in the cubby with salt and kerosene. He should have brought more salt, should have drawn a line around the plaques so they couldn’t disturb him. Now he has to square off with two ghosts until he can burn them.

"You can’t take her from me. You can’t take her from me--" she’s repelled with another shot.

"We may burn but we burn--"

"Oh you’ll burn alright." Dean mutters, lighting the items in the cubby hole. It takes a moment, but the habit goes up in flames. The blonde ghost, Ada, he supposes, screams, and burns, fading away to ash.

"Ada!" Susanna screams, flickering back into view. She looks truly heartbroken for a moment, and Dean is sorry, but then she looks at him and her eyes seem to go black, and she screams at him. She’s on him before he can even think to shoot, tossing him clear across the room. A wall full of plaques rattles behind him, and Dean barely has time to raise his gun before she is there again, hands wrapped around his throat. He fires at her belly, and doesn’t take the extra seconds to regain his breath. 

He finds Susanna Hatcher 1815-1835 along the wall and pries it open, salting and dousing it in kerosene. He’s shoved up against the wall, Susanna’s icy breath on the back of his neck, her nails digging into the meat of his shoulders, warm blood sluicing down his back. The force shakes a small, grainy photograph of Susanna and Ada loose from a prayer book, and really, Dean is sorry but --

"Say good night bitch." He mutters and tosses a little match into the cubby. Susanna backs off and screams, fading away to ash. Dean truly hopes that where ever they are, they will be together.

He limps back to the hotel room, sits on the end of his bed with a beer and a cell phone, debating if it was even worth the breath to tell Dad he’s finished his first hunt. Dad is in Delaware. Sam is in Stanford. Dean is in Wyoming, alone, licking his wounds in a silence that no amount of background tv noise can alleviate.

 

*

 

"Sam?" Jessica whispers, hand curling around his shoulder.

"I hear it." Sam whispers back. He slips fro. The bed and slinks down stairs, peering around shadowed corers. The would-be burglar stalks past, and Sam grabs him. They scuffle, all practiced hand to hand combat, with a rhythm and a flow that is almost familiar.

"Easy, there, Sammy." Comes a deep Breathless voice when he presses the assailant to a wall knocking a picture frame askew. But there’s a cadence he recognizes, a hint of laughter and joy and--

"Dean?" Sam gasps, pulling them both up right to look at Dean in the moonlight. The top of Dean’s head is just below Sam’s eye line, and that’s maybe the strangest thing about all of this. When he left, Dean barely came up to his shoulders, and thinking about him every time since, he forgot Dean would grow, that Dean would change.

Dean became a man and Sam wasn’t there to see any of it. Instead he says "what the hell are you doing here?" Jess switches the light on, baseball bat ready in one fist, this is why he loves her. "Jess, this is Dean," he introduces.

"Dean? Sam’s little brother, Dean, the one with the world famous mac and cheese?" And of course that’s what she remembers of him, they smile at each other, Dean with more interest, eye brows raised and full lips tilted. That is the smile that used to get him free things from kindly old ladies and bored waitresses, turned dark and sultry. Now, Sam imagines, it gets him a whole lot more.

"Stop making eyes at my girlfriend, you sleezeball, and lets go outside and talk."

Dean talks. There’s a whole lot that he’s not really saying when he casually mentions he was in New Orleans, a whole lot to read into that Sam doesn’t like. "What were you doing on a hunt alone?"

"I’m almost nineteen Sammy. Wasn’t my first rodeo. Can look after myself." Yes, Sam thinks, looking at his brother’s profile in the dark as he keeps explaining Dad’s situation. Yes, but Dean really shouldn’t have to. Dean really shouldn’t be hunting anything, shouldn’t have grown up on the road like this, shouldn’t have been left alone for four years. "I can’t do this alone." Dean says softly, and Sam imagines Dean tried, before he came to Sam, driving up and down the country just looking for their father, barely legal, barely grown. "I don’t want to do this alone." He amends.

"I won’t make you." Sam says, because he owes Dean at least this. “I just have to be back by Monday.”

He’s going to skin their father alive when he finds him. And if the thought is a bitter one, it is no different than a million other bitter thoughts over a lifetime.


End file.
